


The Author in the Blue Room

by Lesya



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: AU, Case Fic, F/F, M/M, and finding out they love each other, doing cases, fluff maybe, its just them living together, john gets hurt btw, lets pretend reichenbach never happened, sherlock freaks out
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-15
Updated: 2017-07-27
Packaged: 2018-08-08 22:26:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7776046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lesya/pseuds/Lesya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John head north to Scotland, where a woman was found dead in the room of the Winfield's Inn owners. They try to solve this case, but as they get to the bottom of it, John is hurt. A solved case is a success and Sherlock should feel proud, but he barely pays attention as John is in hospital. How will John react to this caring, worried Sherlock?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Case of Jackie Winfield

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys! Just a small WIP. Hope you enjoy! Btw, this is a fic where none of the Reichenbach Falls or Moriarty happens, so if you're here for that, I'm sorry. John does get hurt, but he will be fine, I promise!

_It’s strange, this feeling_. It wasn’t often Sherlock felt like doing absolutely nothing. Sherlock was always doing something; if he wasn’t moving about, pacing or playing the violin, his mind was racing away with deductions about people and cases. But, at the current moment, his mind felt so sluggish that even the most basic concepts alluded him; it was torture to think about anything. He imagined this is what it felt like to be a stupid ordinary person. Little minds and little thoughts. Even his body refused to comply; it was simply too hot to walk, to sit, to move, to breathe. If he made even the smallest of movements, he was sure his skin would melt off his muscle and then the muscle would follow and John would come home to find only Sherlock’s skeleton in a bathrobe on the sofa. The Mets trying to solve the case would be a tragedy to watch and Sherlock was grateful he wouldn’t have to witness it, being dead and all. John would be sad, too. He wouldn’t want John to be sad.

He twisted the cigarette holder in his hands mindlessly.

Somewhere in the back of his mind he heard a voice telling him that that would be impossible, seeing as the current temperatures weren’t high enough to cause “melting”, but he, quite frankly, couldn’t be arsed to fully bring the thought out to the forefront of his mind. He couldn’t even properly be agitated at the heat since his mind was too lazy at the moment to even conjure up the feeling and express it physically. So he wasted his day away lying on the sofa, not moving and not thinking. He would be bored if he wasn’t so preoccupied trying not to melt ( _it’s impossible, at the current temperatures, for humans to - shut up!_ ).

He was so gone that he startled at the loud bang of the front door being shut, momentarily pausing his twisting the cigarette holder in his hand. The telltale signs of John’s footsteps squeaked out as the wooden floorboards creaked under heavy footsteps.

John walked into the kitchen and Sherlock could hear the crinkle of plastic bags being put down. Bags? Why did John have bags? He must have asked out loud, because he heard John reply, “I went to the shop. Didn’t you hear?”

“Mm. No.” Sherlock was staring straight ahead, but saw John walk into the living room out of the corner of his eye.

“Hey. Didn’t see you there,” he said, greeting Sherlock properly.

Sherlock, John saw, was in his usual blue robe. No pajamas. He hoped Sherlock was at least wearing pants. No need to ruin John’s perfectly good health. He didn’t want to have a heart attack anytime soon. Well, he didn’t want to have one at all, ever, but living with Sherlock, he’d resigned himself to the idea. Someday, sooner or later, Sherlock would do something that not even John could handle.

Regardless of the possibility of heart attack, John couldn’t really blame Sherlock for forgoing most of his usual clothing: it _was_ quite hot today. Hottest day in the summer, so far. He himself was wearing only a shirt and some thin sweats that he only ever wore at home, but he couldn’t bring himself to put on his jeans and he wasn’t a fan of shorts.

Sherlock, John noted, was also holding a cigarette holder and absentmindedly nibbling on the end of it. Sherlock turned his head and looked up at John. He noticed John pointedly staring at the holder and scowled.

“I’m not actually smoking, you know,” he said somewhat petulantly, taking the holder out of his mouth.

“Hmm? Oh. Yeah, I know. Just umm- Anyway, what are you up to? Any new cases?” John said, quickly changing the subject. Sherlock scrutinized him for a moment, quickly deducing what he’d been up to the whole day, then turned back to stare at the ceiling and continued to nibble on his holder.

“Nuffing.”

John balked. “You? _You_ did _nothing_? All day?” He said with raised eyebrows and a small mocking smile.

Sherlock groaned. “Ugh. It’s the heat. I can’t move. I can’t _think_. I can’t _breathe_. How on _earth_ do you do it?” He said, talking around the holder.

“Um, well, I _was_ a soldier in Afghanistan, in case you forgot. I had to move around in uniform in high heat. You get used to it. Sort of.”

“See? This is exactly my point. How could I ask such a _stupid_ question? If I was thinking properly, the thought wouldn’t have even crossed my mind, because it’s _so_ obvious, but right now I feel like my brain is…mush. Ugh, I feel like Anderson.”

John chuckled. He _chuckled_. How could he find humor at a time like this? Didn’t he see how distressed Sherlock was? Didn’t he see how serious this was? England would surely fall without Sherlock being able to think properly. How would the cases be solved? By the Mets? Unlikely.

“Stop sulking so much. It’s just one day. It’s not like it’s the end of the world. Besides, I bought some ice cream yesterday and we have some ice in the fridge. Want some cold water with ice?”

“Yes, please.”

John smiled to himself. It was rare to see a polite Sherlock. The heat really _was_ getting to him.

While John was bustling about in the kitchen, Sherlock let himself think for a bit and imagine what it must have been like for John, out in scorching heat, trying not to die while saving someone else’s life. John in scorching heat in his uniform. Or just in his army trousers, boots, and a simple shirt. His dog tags hanging about, dangling and glistening in the sun. Sherlock sighed. The imagined sight was so magnificent. If only he could have seen the real thing. Momentarily losing his mind, he wondered if Mycroft could lend him a uniform, but quickly discarded the thought. No way was he ever asking something like that. His brother already knew him quite well (something Sherlock would _never_ admit out loud to anyone, ever); Mycroft didn’t need to know him on an even more…personal level. He could already see the knowing, smug smirk on his face.

“What are you scowling at now?” John said, startling him from his thoughts. He was holding a glass of water with ice, waiting for Sherlock to take it.

“My brother,” Sherlock replied, putting down the holder and taking the glass. The second the first drop hit his throat, Sherlock gulped everything down at once. He felt like a man in a desert who had finally stumbled upon a small oasis. He hadn’t even known he was thirsty until John offered him the water.

“What’d he do now?”

“Nothing. It was more of a hypothetical.”

“I see. Want more?”

“No. Thank you.”

John smiled again and walked back to his chair. He sat down and pulled his laptop to himself, typing in his (predictable) password (5herlockpissoff; the 5 was there to throw him off and an attempt at being clever, but what John didn’t know was that Sherlock didn’t simply guess his passwords. John’s typing was so abysmally slow that all Sherlock had to do was look once and he’d have it) and began his slow, pecking typing. It had always been a pet peeve of Sherlock’s. John was such an old man sometimes.

John, meanwhile, was trying very hard to distract himself from looking at Sherlock. Nope. He would not ogle his flat mate and best friend. That really wasn’t on.

“Do you miss it?” Sherlock asked, to stop the typing, but also mostly because he was genuinely curious.

“What?”

“The uniform. Do you miss it?”

“Oh. Well, yes. I suppose I do, a bit, yeah. Why?”

“That is a brilliant question, John. Why? Why do you miss it?”

“You bloody well know why, you know-it-all. You don’t have to ask.”

“Yes, but I want to hear you say it.”

That made John pause. That didn’t sound like Sherlock. At all. Sherlock was methodical and didn’t waste time or breath. Everything had a value and he used the least amount possible, because it was, as Sherlock put it, _tedious_. And yet, here he was, asking John to say what he already knew, because…why? John didn’t know. He knew some things about Sherlock, more than other people, but he still had trouble understanding the man sometimes. Maybe he was just bored. Who knew with him?

John didn’t really like talking about his army days, but he could make an exception. Sherlock was different.

“Well. I went to the army for a reason. I went to serve and protect the country. I went so I could save lives, even though I did end up ending a few. When I was there, I was…I was surrounded by my mates. I was surrounded by chaos and misery and yet.” John cleared his throat, finding it hard to go on. He didn’t look up at Sherlock, but he could feel that intense gaze on him. “And yet, there were also a lot of good times. I loved the excitement, the danger, as you already know. When I put on my uniform, I wasn’t just John Watson anymore, I was a soldier, a doctor, a brother in arms. My plain life was left behind and I marched into battle, into the midst of chaos, because I loved it. And then I was, well, you know. And now I’m here. And it’s, well, um, it’s good. Yeah, good, but- I still miss the uniform, but that doesn’t mean I _need_ it. I’ll always be a soldier, no matter what I’m wearing. I don’t need it to see the battlefield.” _I have you for that,_ he didn’t say, but he’s pretty sure Sherlock heard it anyway. God. Did he really say all that? He really should have kept his mouth shut about it all. He’s never said as much to Sherlock before. He doesn’t really know how he’ll react. Doesn’t _want_ to know.

He turned to look at him, dreading it, yet still stubbornly curious to see the reaction. He was surprised to see that Sherlock was looking at John with slightly widened eyes and slowly, a small smile stretched across his mouth. It was rare that John got to see a genuine smile from Sherlock that wasn’t from simple excitement of a new or successfully solved case. And this one looked even more different; it looked like a smile he got when John managed to surprise him in some way. It’s not common, but the look of surprise on Sherlock’s face is always something that’s great to see. Especially when it’s John who put it there. Sherlock is perhaps one of the most difficult people to surprise, since he’s so good at reading other people and predicting what they’ll do. He remembered the moment at Battersea Station and his conversation with Miss Adler. Irene had asked, “Does that mean I’m special?” and John found himself echoing that sentiment from time to time. Was he special, in some way? Maybe not.

“John. You never fail to surprise me. I knew, of course, the basics of it, but I hadn’t expected all that. Know that when I say this, I do so in all seriousness that you, John, are so refreshing after all the idiots I have to deal with on a constant basis.”

 _Maybe_.

John felt a small pang in his chest. He never let himself believe that he was special to Sherlock. He didn’t need that particular kind of heartbreak, but Sherlock wasn’t always doing a good job of dissuading him and things were suddenly getting a bit too serious for his tastes.

“I thought I _was_ one of the idiots you have to deal with.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, John, you’re not an idiot.”

“Really? You gave me a very clear impression that I am.”

“Well, yes, sometimes. That doesn’t mean you’re always an idiot. Aren’t we all a bit idiotic sometimes?”

“‘We’? Did you just include yourself? Did you just admit to being an idiot sometimes?”

“That’s hardly relevant.”

“Hold on, could you repeat that, I need to get my phone, get a recording. Lestrade will never believe me without proof,” John said, while digging into his back pocket to pull out his phone.

Sherlock just looked at him with that pout he does when he’s upset and turned his back to John.

“I am wrong sometimes.” It was said so quietly that John wasn’t sure if he actually heard it or if it was just in his head.

“And yes, I can be prone to being a moron from time to time. There. Are you happy now? ‘Sherlock admits that he’s actually a dumb, ignorant arse’. The world can now rejoice. The idiots can now take pleasure in me admitting it. The great Sherlock Holmes has been brought down to their abysmally low standards of intelligence.”

John sighed. Leave it to Sherlock to make one small comment out to be a personal attack on his entire existence.

“Sherlock, you know I didn’t mean it like that. I was just teasing. I know how smart and clever you are. You seem to know everything all the time. Sometimes I forget that you can be wrong, too.”

This seemed to get Sherlock’s attention as he slowly turned around and looked over his shoulder at John.

“You do know I’m not perfect. No matter how close I get, there will always be something that I’ll get wrong. There will be times when my judgement may be clouded by other things. Like curiosity or the thrill of finding out a puzzle. I may go to extreme lengths that, by some standards, are idiotic, just to find out how a murderer committed a crime and risk myself getting killed. It’s who I am.”

John is momentarily taken back to their first case together. A Study in Pink rests on his blog, documenting the beginning of John’s and Sherlock’s adventures. He remembers screaming Sherlock’s name, the bloody idiot already closing his mouth around the pill. He remembers the slight fear he felt when he saw how close Sherlock was to dying. He also remembers the determination that had set in, as it always does when in the face of danger. The shot rang out and the cabbie went down. Sherlock had stood in shock, but when he turned, John had already been gone. He could only imagine the ramifications of being found not only in possession of an illegal firearm but also guilty of shooting a cabbie. In John’s defense, he had been a bad cabbie. And a serial killer. And had the intent to kill Sherlock, although from where John had been standing, it seemed like Sherlock was perfectly alright doing that himself. Then Sherlock had found out (not like John had planned on hiding it or anything) and he looked as if he’d had a revelation, like he was seeing John in a new light, or perhaps seeing something which he had overlooked before. That night had been a good one even though the day had started out pretty poorly. They smiled and laughed and had dinner.

“And you, John Watson, you,” Sherlock started again, pointing the holder at John. He had moved off the couch sometime while John was deep in thought and was pacing up to John’s chair, looking intently at him. “You like danger, but you’re also a doctor. You’ve saved lives. My own included. That’s who _you_ are.”

Sherlock stopped near John’s chair, looking down at him. John wasn’t entirely sure what to make of…all of that. What Sherlock said was just simple truth, yet it made John feel happy for some reason. Perhaps it wasn’t the words spoken, rather the way Sherlock spoke them and how he had looked while speaking them. Or maybe it was simply because Sherlock actually said, out loud, that John had saved him. He’d never really done that. Besides that, John felt as if there was more to those words than what John originally thought. He just couldn’t figure it out. Sherlock’s features were relaxed and he had a small smile on his face. John thought that he’d never looked more beautiful than in that moment. _If only he showed himself like this more often_ , he thought.

Sherlock turned and flopped down in his own chair, ultimately breaking the strange atmosphere between them. It wasn’t until Sherlock’s eyes left his own that he noticed how long he’d been staring at the man. That wasn’t normal, was it? But then again, nothing was normal about Sherlock. And yet, something felt different this time. He really didn’t want to hold onto hope, but Sherlock always made it hard. Some days John felt completely hopeless and others, like anything could happen. But nothing ever did. Apart from the usual.

Sherlock grabbed his own laptop and began typing after putting the holder down. Why did he even have it?

He made a frustrated noise and shut the laptop closed. “Nothing. There are no new cases. Not even really boring ones I could solve in my sleep.”

“Are you sure you’re ready to settle for ‘boring’?”

“I’m ready to do anything.”

“I thought the heat was mucking up your thinking?”

“Well it’s not anymore. The water was relieving.”

Sherlock abruptly stood up and announced, “I’m off to shower. I’m all sticky.”

He scrunched his nose up at “sticky” and John had to resist saying something ridiculous like, “That’s adorable” out loud. That would be a bit not good. For a moment he wanted to give in and say it just to see how Sherlock would react, but luckily he didn’t get the chance.

Sherlock left the room quickly and shut the bathroom door primly, taking John’s mind out of its momentary insanity.

* * *

 

_Slow and steady, John. Slow and steady._

He held his hand as carefully still as possible and slowly pulled up. He was almost there when the doorbell rang quite loudly, startling him and causing him to touch the edge. The board made a buzzing noise and John cursed, “Shit!” He’d been so sure he’d get at least one right, but even this one he messed up.

When he looked up, he saw Sherlock smirking at him.

“Aren’t you a doctor, John?”

“Yes,” he ground out. “A doctor. Not a surgeon.”

“Hmm. But surely, one game of Operation isn’t above your skill? And yet, not one win. What does that say about you?”

John glared at Sherlock. He knew exactly what his losses said about him, he just hoped that Sherlock didn’t. It wasn’t anything Sherlock had to know.

He didn’t answer Sherlock, opting to ignore the question. He was quite comfortable and very much did not want to move from his seat, but knowing that Sherlock couldn’t be arsed to get the door himself, he got up and went downstairs. When he opened the door, he found an older woman at the door. She was clearly quite older than John, well into her fifties, and very beautiful. John could only hope he looked half as good when he got to be her age. He saw that she was trying to smile, but her slightly wavering lips told that she would most likely break down at any moment.

“Is Mr. Holmes in?” she asked with a shaking voice.

“Uh, yeah. Come in,” John replied, moving aside and ushering her in. He didn’t ask who she was; it was quite obvious that she was a client.

John followed this woman up the stairs and into their living room, where there was a chair already in place for her. Sherlock was in his own chair, cool mask on and fingers steepled together.

The game of Operation was nowhere in sight.

John sighed in relief as he took a seat in his own chair across from Sherlock and they both turned to the woman. Underneath her coat, she wore carefully tailored clothing, the fabrics clearly more on the expensive side and not something one would own working a regular job. She also carried herself in a very careful manner that spoke of years of practice in “proper” manners. She basically screamed “old money”.

Sherlock spoke up first. “I am Sherlock Holmes and this is my friend and partner, Doctor John Watson. What is your case?”

Leave it to Sherlock to head straight for what he thought was most important and ignore everything else. He hadn’t even bothered learning her name. John gave Sherlock an annoyed look, one he’d perfected over their time spent together, and turned to the woman once more. Before she could speak, John said, “Please, tell us your name. We’d like to help in any way we can.”

The woman nodded and looked at her hands folded in her lap.

“Yes. My name is Jackie Winfield. I know who you are, of course. After what happened, I-” the woman took a deep breath. Shockingly, Sherlock said nothing. He didn’t roll his eyes or sigh. He didn’t even bother with deductions. He usually did those to show off, but when John turned to look at the man, he was focused on the woman, listening intently. Strange.

“I heard about you two from an acquaintance. The police- they’ve done what they could, but I don’t think they’re anywhere near to figuring out the case. They need help. I need help. Please.”

“Of course,” John said.

“Yes,” Sherlock agreed, earning him a couple of raised brows from John. “Right after you tell us your case and we decide it’s in any way fascinating.”

The brows came down. It seemed John didn’t need to worry; Sherlock was quite his usual charming self.

“Well, my husband and I own an inn, of a sort,” the woman continued quickly. John wasn’t surprised. It was quite obvious that she was a woman of wealth. And when did he become Sherlock Holmes?

“It’s for people to come to relax and enjoy some time off. It used to be my ancestral house, but it’s quite big and we barely used any of it. So, we’d decided to turn it into a place where people could come to stay for a while. There’s an indoor pool, there’s golf, a garden, gym, and food served by professional chefs. We offer the best we can. We’ve never had any problems. I mean, of course you’ll get a troubled client or two, but everything has always been quite fine. Until, that is, one of my clients was found dead in my and my husband’s room!” At this, Mrs. Winfield broke down, taking out a handkerchief to dry her eyes with. Sherlock leaned back into his seat and took a deep breath. He stared at some point off in the distance. Most people would look at Sherlock and think he was being rude and impatient, but John knew that he was thinking. And if he was thinking, it was a good sign that they were probably going to take on the case.

“Can you tell us anything else?” John asked politely.

Mrs. Winfield looked to John and continued on. “The police came and they questioned everyone. No one can stay in the house right now, not until they’re finished with the investigation. They have everyone on record, so if anyone who’s a suspect tries to run, they’ll find them, but so far no one has gone. My husband and I are staying at an inn not too far away, along with some of my guests. I’ve been cleared to go, so I came here to ask for help.” She dabbed her eye a few times. John couldn’t help but feel sorry.

Sherlock remained silent, still staring off into nowhere. It was usual Sherlock behavior, but John still felt somehow discomfited.

John cleared his throat. “Sherlock?”

“Hm? Oh, yes. Of course. Where did you say you were from? Oh wait, no, I know. Selkirk.”

“Oh. Yes. How did you...”

“I have my skills, Mrs. Winfield.” John took a deep breath to prepare himself for the onslaught of deductions that were to be thrown at the poor woman, because Sherlock was a showoff and “that’s what we do, John”.

But strangely, they never came. All Sherlock said next was, “We’ll be there as soon as possible. Worry not, we will solve this crime swiftly and you’ll be back to your home in no time.” He gave her a smile and the woman actually smiled back. This was one of the few times that someone didn’t react to Sherlock poorly and actually managed to be kind to him.

Mrs. Winfield got up and went to the door, before walking back to Sherlock and handing him a card.

“So you know where to go. There’s an inn close by called the Morgan’s Inn. We’re all staying there at the moment, if you’d like to stay as well.”

“Mm. We’ll stay in touch.” At this, Mrs. Winfield gave one last goodbye to John and left the building. John turned to Sherlock who was looking over the card Mrs. Winfield gave him. The man swiftly put it into his suit pocket and looked at John.

“So, we have a case.”

“Yes, it would seem so,” Sherlock replied. He steepled his fingers and looked past John.

John picked up the newspaper of the day and continued reading where he’d stopped when Sherlock had decided on playing children’s board games.

“And after all this time of nothing showing up. It _was_ starting to get a bit dull solving the really boring ones.”

“So this one isn’t boring?” John knew the answer, but he asked just for the sake of seeing Sherlock excited.

“Of course, John! Didn’t you hear? A murder at an inn! In their personal bedroom. How wonderful!”

“I don’t think Mrs. Winfield shares your views.”

“Oh. Well. Of course. She did lose a client,” Sherlock said with a small smile.

“Bad for business, that. ‘Come stay at our inn! Enjoy our nice rooms, gardens, golf course, and a chance to be murdered while you’re asleep.” John turned a page and hid his smirk with the paper. He heard Sherlock scoff out a few giggles and murmur, “terrible.”

“Well it is true.”

Sherlock couldn’t help the smile that spread across his face, but quickly wiped it off before John could catch him. He’d done quite enough thinking and now was the time to get prepared.

He jumped out of his chair and went to his room. John looked up with puzzlement and put down the paper. He went after Sherlock, coming to stand in the doorway as he watched the madman fly about the room, gathering his things and shoving them into a case.

“What are you doing?”

“What does it look like I’m doing?” Sherlock asked in his “are-you-an-idiot” tone of voice.

“So we’re leaving now? Already?”

“Problem?” The man asked, pausing in his fluttering and looking up at John with barely concealed excitement.

“Well, I just thought we’d wait for tomorrow.”

“Do you really want to wait?” He asked as he went back to dashing about the room. “I’ve started working on a theory, but I can’t be sure, since I have nothing conclusive yet. I need more data, John!” With this, he shut his case and turned to John, ready to go.

“Are you coming?” Sherlock asked.

As if he needed to.

John turned and dashed upstairs to his room.


	2. Victim : Angelina Marshall ; Suspect : ?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the second chapter. Sorry for the long wait! Btw, i'm filllthevoidd on tumblr, so come and say hello (or scream about johnlock, whichever)

_They decided to rent a car_. A train might have been faster, sure, but the place they were going was more secluded and would be tougher to get to.

Sherlock drove, of course.

They decided to leave as soon as possible and would arrive at some time in the evening. They might even have time to take a look around. Sherlock, for once, did the responsible thing, and asked Lestrade to tell the local police over there to expect him. John suspected he only did that because he knew it’d be the fastest way to the crime scene. He was quite frankly amazed that Sherlock had put off being dramatic for practical reasons. He’d never thought he’d see the day that Sherlock Holmes did something without infusing drama into it some way. But then again, he did seem overly excited. It had been a while and the man seemed to be happy to finally get something interesting. A murder in a locked room; it was right up his alley.

Sherlock, meanwhile, drove on in thought. He looked straight ahead at the road, but half his mind was on the case. He knew theorizing before he got all the facts was a terrible idea, but he was already thinking of a few possible solutions.

The case was interesting, but he didn’t take it for that reason alone. He loved these particular cases where he and John could get out of the city. Although they were solving cases, they were also relaxing. They both loved the city, of course, but even men like them needed a break from it.

“So, this case. Any ideas?” John asked after a while. He’d left Sherlock to it, knowing the man was in his head. Instead, he’d chosen to look out at the passing scenery as they drove on. Eventually, however, the quiet became boring and John was curious.

“Several. I don’t want to jump to conclusions without all the necessary data, but, from what I have, there are several possible outcomes.”

“Which are?”

Sherlock smirked.

“Well, it clearly isn’t Mrs. Winfield.”

“Why do you say that? What, she came to us so you think she’s innocent?”

“Isn’t that a reasonable assumption?”

“Yes, but she could be just trying to lure you into a sense of security. Make herself out to be a victim whilst being the perpetrator.”

“Clever, yes, but also quite foolish. She knows who I am. I wouldn’t fall for something like that. I’d figure her out very quickly.”

“She could have tampered with the evidence.”

“Likely, but I would’ve known. There are always tells. Besides, if they let her go, she probably has a solid alibi.”

“So not Mrs. Winfield. Anyone else?”

“Well, there is her husband. And the guests.”

“Or maybe a third party? Someone outside the house?”

“Yes, I’ve thought about it, too. You see, there have been several similar murders throughout the years. A guest killed in their room. They went unsolved. It could be the same person.”

“Or a copycat.”

“Or a copycat. I won’t know until I analyze the crime scene and the body.”

“So her husband?”

“Hm. Can’t say. I need to meet him. And the guests.”

“What _I’d_ like to know is why.”

“People always do silly things, John. Don’t they?”

“I suppose. If you consider murder ‘silly’.”

“It’s either money or love. It usually comes down to the two.”

“Yes, I’ve noticed the pattern. But, couldn’t the person be motivated by hatred?”

“Well, where love is involved, hatred follows. You can’t have one without the other, unfortunately.”

“Right. Love and hatred. Think jealousy might play a role?”

“Could be. It’s a likely contender. There’s no use overthinking it now.”

“That’s rich, coming from you.”

“ _I_ overthink? _Me_? John, I assure you, I always think the proper amount.”

Sherlock pouted, turned his nose up, and drove on in silence.

John only snorted and left it at that.

* * *

 A couple hours later, the sky darkening and the sun going down, they arrived at a large building with a big sign on the front reading “The Morgan’s Inn”. Sherlock parked their rental and John got out to get their stuff from the trunk. He met Sherlock at the entrance and they walked into the lobby where they were greeted by a young woman at a desk. She smiled politely at them, though her gaze lingered on Sherlock a bit.

_Of course._

“Hello. How may I help you?”

“Reservation for Holmes,” Sherlock replied in a bored tone. Sherlock looked to John and saw a confused look on his face. When John looked at him he smiled innocently and turned back to the girl. When did he even have the time to make reservations?

When she found their information on the computer, she looked back up at Sherlock. Her face fell a bit, but she tried to maintain her professionalism by offering a polite smile. Looking briefly at John, she said, “Right. A double suite. It’s room B12, on the second floor.” That was some brow-raising information. This wasn’t exactly the first time they’d spent a night in a double, but it was still surprising for John when they did.

 _Great_.

This was going to be fun, having Sherlock only a couple inches away and having to suppress all his urges to pin the man to the bed and do terrible things to him.

She handed the keys to Sherlock. He gave her a quick smile, which she politely returned, and turned to John.

John had expected the man to rush up to their room without a second thought as he often did, but instead he reached for John’s case.

John gave him a puzzled look, but Sherlock only raised his brows. John let go of the case and let the man carry it up. He managed to give the girl at the front desk a small polite smile and went after Sherlock.

They found their room quickly and John was relieved to finally put everything down. All he wanted to do was take a nice hot shower, eat some dinner, and doze off. But with the case going on, that probably wasn’t going to happen. For now, he took a seat in one of the chairs near the fireplace and tried to relax.

“She was pretty,” Sherlock spoke up, taking him out of his thoughts. John saw that his coat was off and he was taking a seat in the chair opposite, reminiscent of the ones back home. “If you go in for that sort of thing.”

“Who?” John asked with confusion written on his face.

“Claire,” Sherlock replied, as if that meant anything to John.

“I’m sorry, but who? I don’t know a Claire.”

Sherlock let out an exasperated breath. “The girl at the front desk, Claire. Didn’t you read her name tag?”

“Why would I do that?”

“You were staring. I assumed you at least managed to read her name.”

“I wasn’t staring.”

“Yes you were.”

“Fine. I was staring. So? You think she’s pretty?”

“No, but you do.”

“How do you know that? Can you read my thoughts now, too?”

_Bloody well hope not. He really didn’t need Sherlock seeing the kind of thoughts he’s been having._

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“Don’t be ridiculous, John. That is physically impossible. You were staring at her and I noticed your pupils were dilated. Also, she has the typical physical characteristics of what you find attractive. She’s just your ‘type’. So, therefore, attraction.”

“Sherlock, I am not attracted to her. Just because someone stares at you doesn’t necessarily mean that they have feelings for you, alright? I was just lost in thought so it looked like I was staring.”

Sherlock took a deep breath and exhaled.

“I see. So no future ‘dates’ planned?”

“Nope. Why do you care anyway?” John narrowed his eyes.

“I don’t,” Sherlock answered quickly. Too quickly. His eyes widened, but he schooled his expression.

“Yes, you clearly do.”

“I don’t want this interfering with work.”

“‘Interfering with work’? Right. You like her.”

“What? No I don’t. What gave you that idea?” Sherlock’s face scrunched up in pained confusion. He was being genuine.

“Well, maybe not like. You want something from her.”

“John. I don’t want anything from her. I don’t like her. For God’s sake, I don’t even know her!”

“Well neither do I!”

“Well! Well...good. I’m glad that’s settled then. No distractions.”

“Right. No distractions.”

They sat in silence for a couple of seconds, just looking at each other after having shouted like bloody five year olds at one another.

John couldn’t help it; he burst out giggling and although Sherlock tried to hold on to his stern look, his mouth quivered and soon he was joining John.

“God that was the stupidest, most idiotic argument we’ve had yet.”

“Hmm. I think it’s debatable. But you’re right. This was very stupid. I’m sorry, John.”

John’s giggles subsided and he looked at Sherlock. It was less rare now to hear those words slip from Sherlock’s mouth than it had been at the start of their friendship. Sherlock over the years had learned the meaning of those words and also learned not to be ashamed to say them. John, of course, greatly appreciated this.

“You don’t have to apologize. It wasn’t anything serious. It’s just some usual silliness. We’re both exhausted and cranky.”

“I say we call it a night.”

“Are you sure? Thought you might want to go out a bit, check some stuff out.”

 “No. There’s no point going out now. I wouldn’t be able to see anything in the dark anyway. I guess I’ll just have to wait for tomorrow.”

* * *

 John sat at the table down in the dining area. It was a bright morning and John was starving after missing dinner the other day. Across from him, Sherlock was avoiding his food by spreading it around his plate with his fork. He thought John was stupid enough to believe he was actually eating something.

Not for the first time, John was very exasperated. As much as he understood Sherlock, the doctor in him could not accept Sherlock making his body suffer just because he thought it somehow helped. _But I’m on a case, John_ , he would say. There were no problems at all other times, but during a case Sherlock put it off. And usually John let him, but they’ve reached a point where they would compromise. One meal per day. It seemed to work. Most of the time.

He stared at Sherlock, hard. The man looked up from his plate and, seeing John’s expression, pouted.

He always did that. It was sort of like their routine: Sherlock refused to eat, John basically ordered him to non verbally, Sherlock pouted and sulked for show, and then he finally ate something more substantial than biscuits.

Unknown to John, Sherlock had anticipated this now usual procedure. Sherlock had noticed a pattern after some time of living with John. Although Sherlock had started out not eating at all during cases, he somehow ended up eating more and more after each case. John was a person who didn’t step on your toes. He was the sort of person who respected others’ privacy and space because he expected the same. So, usually, he left Sherlock to his own devices, letting him take care of himself. However, there was still a part of him, that natural caretaker and doctor that was very unhappy to see someone deprive themselves in some way. He saw that as unhealthy, of course. So, he started nudging Sherlock here and there and at first, it didn’t work. It wasn’t until John had gotten quite short with Sherlock and actually _ordered_ him to eat. Something in Sherlock snapped like a rope being pulled tight and he immediately complied.

Now he acted as if it was some great burden, but truly he did not mind much. He simply liked the attention it got him. It felt _nice_ (for a lack of a better word) to be cared for. Plus, it didn’t hurt to see John like that. He really liked it when John was like that. Stern and commanding. Every time he pulled that face on Sherlock, he felt a fluttering somewhere in his stomach.

_Ridiculous._

Sherlock had to fight to keep the smile from his face.

He put his fork filled with eggs in his mouth to prevent it from fully forming and John from seeing. He felt that warmth in his chest again. He wanted so terribly to scoff. _Sentiment_ , indeed.

John saw Sherlock finally put actual food in his mouth and left the man to it. If he didn’t eat at least half, he’d make him eat the damn food cold.

As he slowly chewed, he thought of the previous night, after they’d arrived. The procedure was much the same as always: they both got ready for bed by performing their usual rituals of washing teeth and getting into sleepwear (or in John’s case, taking off his shirt and jeans). But, this time, Sherlock had not stayed up. Usually the man would stay up all night trying to solve the case. Other times, he’d pass out on a couch if one was in the room, or he’d go to bed at some point later in the night and when John awoke, he would be gone.

No, this time the man climbed into bed right after John. Although they shared a bed a few times, this was a bit different from all the other times. He’d assumed that they’d stay quiet and pretend it wasn’t happening, but that hadn’t happened...

_“John?” He heard a whisper from behind him._

_“Mmm?” He asked as he turned to his back. He looked up at the dark ceiling._

_“That thing you said earlier...” Sherlock said. He was on his side, near the edge of the bed._

_“What thing?” John asked as he turned his head to Sherlock. In the dark, he could barely make out Sherlock’s eyes. They were so close._

_“The thing about staring.”_

_“What thing about – oh, yes. Yeah, well, what about it?”_

_“Nothing. Just thinking why people do it.”_

_“Well, uh, many reasons. They like you. They hate you. Maybe they’re totally, completely amazed by you,” John said as he turned his head back to the ceiling and closed his eyes. He couldn’t help smiling. He hoped Sherlock wouldn’t see._

_“Or maybe they’re afraid. Maybe they think the person’s a freak,” Sherlock said quietly. And John understood where the man was going with this. Many people saw Sherlock in that light and John could only feel sad that people dismissed his brilliance because he was a little strange. At least, in their eyes._

_“Let them. It doesn’t matter what people say.” He heard a scoff._

_“You’re the one who always says ‘people will talk’.” And the conversation quickly veered off into a direction John was always desperately trying to avoid. He didn’t need to try hard, seeing as Sherlock didn’t seem too keen on it himself, but for some reason he thought that **this** was the perfect time for it. _

_“Yes, well, I changed my mind. Sod them. They don’t matter in the grand scheme of things. All that matters is what you have right now. Your friends, family, work.”_

_Sherlock stayed silent and John finally turned to face him again. The man was simply looking at John. He wasn’t observing. He wasn’t trying to pick apart every detail and figure out what was on his mind. He simply looked._

_And John..._

_John wanted to look away. But if he did, it would seem too obvious to Sherlock. It would reveal far too much far too quickly. He wasn’t ready yet. Besides, this would seem like a defeat, like he was running away. And John was done with running. He was a soldier. He knew how to stand and fight. And yet, looking too long would be bad, because every time that happened it created a tension. At least, for John it did. And he wasn’t sure how long he could go on pretending he didn’t want to kiss Sherlock all the time._

_“Goodnight, John,” Sherlock simply said, very quietly in not-quite-a whisper. He turned away from John and all John could do was reply and turn away._

In the morning, John found himself waking up first for the first time ever, probably. He was used to an early schedule after the army and it had never seemed to have left him. He was always on schedule no matter how long he lived a civilian life. Well, if you want to call his life _civilian._

Maybe it was because he couldn’t fully adapt or relax, but John knew those weren’t the true reasons. He slept in sometimes, when he was particularly exhausted after a long case, but usually he woke early and ready for the day to start. One day, he’d been sitting in his chair while Sherlock was scraping away on his violin. It was like any other day. And yet, in that one moment, for the first time, he recognized what he’d been feeling for so long: happiness. Genuine and true happiness. And this happiness is what woke him up every morning, ready for a case and a smiling madman to take him away.

The said madman had slept in a bit. He looked at him, but quickly turned away to go and get ready for the day. After John was done with his usual routine, he returned from the bathroom to find Sherlock stirring.

One eye had shot open and then a head full of rowdy curls popped up.

“John?” he called groggily, his voice sleep sore. John had struggled in that moment not to beam like a loon and kiss the genius with the wild hair until his head swam.

“Yeah Sherlock. Right here. In front of you. You alright? Did I wake you?”

“Oh, um. No. No, you didn’t,” he replied, fully sitting up now and looking at John as if he’s just seen him.

“You’ve been asleep for a while,” John pointed out. “I woke up before you. Strange that you’d sleep so well while on a case.”

“Well, the beds here are very comfortable. Besides, it’s quiet. No noise. Peaceful.”

John snorted.

“Isn’t it hateful?” John asked, genuinely curious while still mimicking Sherlock.

Sherlock, of course, pouted and curled the sheets around himself. He got off the bed and stomped to his laptop, then back to the bed. He tripped and almost fell twice while doing so. John loved moments like these, seeing Sherlock act like a newborn fawn and so unlike his usual graceful self.

He said nothing about the man’s clumsiness and instead decided to distract himself by taking out his own laptop. Might as well research. Otherwise, he’d spend all his time staring at his flat mate, lusting from afar. You wouldn’t have to be Sherlock Holmes to catch onto John’s feelings.

He’d gotten so lost in his search that he was startled when Sherlock flopped into the chair opposite of his.

The man let out a sigh and steepled his fingers together as he always did. John looked up at him and shut his laptop. The man had gone out at some point, because he was dressed in his usual suit. His hair was somewhat tamed with product and John could smell a faint scent of cologne from him. Sally had been right; Sherlock was going to end up killing a man and that man is going to be John and the cause of death would be everlasting frustration.

John had recently given up on any romantic endeavors; with Sherlock around, a relationship wasn’t going to happen. He was simply too devoted to the bastard to focus on anyone else. But in doing so, he also gave up a reasonable outlet for his frustrations so now he had to deal with them alone and as discreetly as possible.

One night stands were an option, but John wasn’t that sort of person. As Sherlock had said, he was a romantic.

His thoughts were interrupted by a loud growl. For a second John thought it had been him, but he saw that it was Sherlock. The man’s cheeks slowly tinged a light pink and his mouth smoothed into a thin line. John smirked.

“A bit hungry there, Sherlock?”

“Shut up.”

“Come on, up you get. Let’s get some breakfast. I’m starving.”

The man stood up without another word and followed John out.

And so now they sat finishing their breakfast. There were a few other tenants eating and milling around, but John didn’t see that many people around. Although, it was pretty early.

Sherlock had eaten a bit more than half of what was on his plate and John sent a satisfied smile towards him. He scoffed and rolled his eyes, but John thought he caught a small smile as the man was turning away.

They left their dishes at the table to be picked up and put on their coats. Work awaited.

* * *

 The constable was there to greet them and lead them through the crime scene when they arrived. Under the tape and they went through the house.

It was quite large and old fashioned, but done in a Victorian style. However, it was clearly well-maintained, as all the paint jobs looked recent. The floors looked brand new and the furniture looked straight out of a home magazine Mrs. Hudson would read.

All in all, decent.

The room which held the crime scene was equally beautiful. Old fashioned furniture, but newly done up walls. The floor was a dark almost black wood. The rug was unfortunately white. A nice place to live. If you ignore the blood.  

“Angelina Marshall. Thirty six years old. She was a regular customer; came to stay almost every month. She has- had- a sort of freelance job, something on the computer, so she could afford to come up here. Didn’t seem to have conflicts with anyone. Was fairly well-liked,” the constable said.

“In other words, this doesn’t seem like a grudge or revenge killing,” John replied. Sherlock stood silently, his eyes darting about.

“No, sir. We have a theory that it might be a copycat killer.”

“Yeah, we’ve taken that into consideration as well. Sherlock?” John asked.

He didn’t appear to hear, as he moved closer to the body, then away again. Sherlock moved about the room in his usual flurry. He bent down to examine whatever caught his eye, then moved away and took in the whole of the scene before him. His eyes shifted from one thing to another, clearly deducing and connecting the dots. He saw things that John did not; he always managed to look beyond the obvious, to find meaning in what he saw. John was getting better at it, having spent so much time with Sherlock, but still, he did not think he could solve this case as quickly as Sherlock.

John took a few notes here and there, until Sherlock felt the need to tell them what he knew.

“She’s unmarried. Couldn’t have been an angry lover or spouse. No children, either. There seems to be no conflict. Her pajamas are name brand. Silk. Expensive. Plus her trips here. Clearly she was well off in her job, so it’s not money issues. Her nails are well kept and her hands do not have any bruising. So, clearly not a job that requires hard labor. It has all the appearance of a copycat and yet...”

“Is there something off about it?” The constable asked.

“Yes. It’s the whole scene itself. Why the owners’ room? Why here? Why is it so important? Is it some sort of message?”

“Maybe it’s just an accident,” John piped up.

“An accident?” Sherlock questioned, his brows scrunched low and his eyes wide in confusion.

“Well, you know. Maybe the killer got the wrong person.”

“Maybe, but that still doesn’t explain why the victim is here, in this room.”

“She was killed here, definitely. She wasn’t moved.”

“Yes. So the question remains: why was she here instead of her room?” Sherlock paced around, deep in thought, then stopped. He turned to look at John. “Tell me what you see,” he said, looking into John’s eyes.

John didn’t question Sherlock; he was used to offering a second opinion.

John walked closer to the bed where the victim lay. The victim had blonde hair and since her eyes were open, John could see they were pale and the pupils were dilated. Those details were outshone by the blood all around her. She was wearing what was once a white night shirt, but was now only a dark brown red. She was covered in multiple stab wounds. They were all in her abdomen and chest. The bloodied cloth stuck to the wounds. They were not clean cut, a bit jagged. Didn’t seem like a professional job. It was too messy. Clearly the suspect is unexperienced. The wounds were clearly from a knife. A kitchen knife, most likely.

The covers were also ripped and the bottom side of them were also stained. Clearly the suspect stabbed the victim through the covers. The body was already discolored. Her back (where it was exposed) and the back of her legs were deep red; all the blood in her body has already sunk due to gravity. When John reached out to touch her arm with a gloved hand, he could feel that her body was very stiff.

John moved away once more and looked at Sherlock as he spoke.

“She’s clearly been dead for a while now. Due to the pooling of the blood, it appears she hasn’t been moved post-mortem, so she most likely died here. The covers are ripped, so she was probably stabbed through them. Mostly likely died from blood-loss. I don’t think I need to tell you that. The wounds appear to be from a knife, most likely a kitchen knife. I’d suggest you check the ones downstairs.”

“No need. The knife is missing.”

“How do you know?” asked the constable. He’d been amenable so far, but he was taking them with a grain of salt. He let them see the crime, but clearly he was still wary of Sherlock. That wasn’t exactly anything new, so John ignored it. Mostly. It was still a bit irritating.

 “I saw, as we came in, that there was one empty slot in the knife holder. The rest of the kitchen was clean and well-kept, so I doubt it was simply dirty. Obviously the spot belongs to the missing murder weapon.”

“So, what, we have to find it now?”

“Well, that will be for the best. It won’t be necessary for me to solve the crime, but good for the prosecutor to possess.”

Sherlock turned from where he was observing the balcony doors and looked at John.

“I think we’re done here for now. Come John.”

John made sure to say goodbye to the constable, as Sherlock always put that off, and followed Sherlock out. They walked down the road to their rent car, Sherlock quiet as they got in. Once the doors were locked, John immediately turned to him; he knew that the man knew more than he’d said.

“So...you think this might be a copycat or original? I mean, it seems a bit amateur to me.”

“Yes. Clearly not a professional or experienced job.”

“But still, that doesn’t mean it still can’t be a copycat.”

“There have been a few similar cases throughout the past twenty years. In the majority of the cases, the culprit was caught. Only three of those cases went unsolved. However, they are all different. The only similarity is that an attendant of an inn was killed in their room.”

“So it can’t be a copycat,” John said, realization finally hitting him. “This one was killed in the owners’ room.”

“Yes, that and the other killers either used guns or axes. This one used a knife.”

John nodded and contemplated their clues. He let out a small “huh”. Sherlock briefly turned to look at him, curious.

“Do you think, maybe, the victim was a lover?” John said.

“That does seem to be the likely case, doesn’t it. There’s no other reason for the victim to be in the room. And yet, why was she alone? Neither of the owners were there. Anyway, we’ll find out more after we speak to some of the witnesses. And we’ll have to pay Mr. Winfield a visit.”


	3. Meeting Mr. Winfield

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait, but life gets in the way. Hope you enjoy!

_Lunch came first._

After driving back to the Inn, John (and Sherlock, reluctantly) decided to grab something to eat. They’d been out the whole morning and it was already after noon. They still had some people to talk to, but they weren’t going anywhere and the day wasn’t gone yet.

While Sherlock had accompanied John to the dining room, he ran off with a few of John’s chips to do hell knows what. Probably to interrogate some people.

John clenched his fist, then let go. There was no point getting annoyed; it was just Sherlock and he meant nothing by it. Still, he didn’t want to miss out on anything. He knew he was being ridiculous; Sherlock would tell him what happened and John didn’t need to be with him 24/7. Sure, Sherlock could be a bit...blunt, but he ultimately didn’t need John there.

He sighed.

“Hello. Mind if I sit?”

John looked up. A woman, about his age, with light brown hair and thick rimmed glasses stood smiling with her plate in her hands.

“Oh. No, go ahead,” John replied, gesturing for her to sit. She slid into the seat across from him, but did not begin eating. So, he paused as well and waited.

“I’m Sam,” she said, extending her hand. John took it and shook.

“John Watson.”

“Yes. I figured. Saw you with the tall dark-haired bloke – Mr. Holmes. It’s a pleasure.”

“Ah, yeah. Sorry, it’s not usual we get recognized so easily. I mean, in London most people know who we are, but out here...”

“Oh, well. I’m an avid reader of your blog, you see. I’m something of a writer myself, actually.”

“Oh?” John raised his brows. He was quite intrigued. “So, do you enjoy it? My blog, I mean?”

“Yes! I love your stories. Are they all true?”

“Completely, although he does like to romanticize a bit,” came a third voice.

John looked up and saw Sherlock standing just behind Sam. He had a cool expression on his face, looking directly at John and completely ignoring Sam.

Sam turned and looked up, her face lighting up as she saw who it is.

“Mr. Holmes. It’s a pleasure,” she said politely with a small smile on her face.

“Sherlock. And you are?” he drawled, a single brow raised. John just barely managed to restrain an eye roll and sighed.

“Oh, I’m Sam. I’m a big fan. Of the blog and you, of course.”

“Well. Thank you,” Sherlock said, looking down. Clearly he seemed not to know what to say.

“Was there something you needed?” John asked before Sam could say anything else. The git didn’t need his ego inflated any more than it already is.

“Are you finished with your meal? Come, John. We have someone important to meet.”

“Important?”

“Mr. Winfield.”

“Ah. Right. Yeah, I’m just finishing up here,” John replied, getting up quickly and wiping his mouth with a napkin. He almost left without saying anything, but remembered Sam at the last moment.

“Sorry to rush of like that, but business, you know?”

“Oh it’s no worry. You go do what you do. I’ll be fine.”

John gave a quick nod and went after Sherlock, who was stalking away already. He glanced back only once, to see if John was actually following or not.

Sherlock, for the most part, wasn’t shocked to find John with a woman. No matter where they go, it seems like John will always find one. Very convenient.

“So, where are we going, exactly?”

“Upstairs. I’ve been told the man refuses to come out of his room. Struck by grief or some such nonsense.”

“Well, it isn’t a happy occasion.”

“No, but to be struck by grief over a client?” Sherlock asked with a pointed raise of his brow.

“Could be mourning his dead lover.”

“Maybe. Or maybe he’s just a very good at pretending.”

“Yeah,” John said, sighing.

Sherlock quickly looked at John out of the corner of his eye. He didn’t seem any different than usual. So why was Sherlock so bothered?

“So. Sam,” Sherlock began, but honestly, he didn’t really know where to go from there.

“Uh, what about her?” John asked as they rose up the stairs.

“Oh nothing.”

“Why are you taking an interest in another human being?”

“I always take interest in people.”

“Yeah, dead ones.”

Sherlock sighed. “I’m not the one ‘taking an interest’. You are,” Sherlock said, looking directly at John. He stopped abruptly and turned toward a door. He raised his knuckle and quickly struck the wood.

John looked down and sighed.

This again.

“She came up to me, because she recognized me. Just wanted a chat. That’s all.”

“Mm.”

“Besides, she’s not even my type.” Sherlock knew that, but he wasn’t going to admit it.

“Oh? You have a type?”

“Yes, Sherlock. Everyone has a type."

“Well, it’s nice to know you don’t even need to try. They all just seem to _magically_ flock to you.”

“Sherlock- Wait, didn't you mention my 'type' earlier?”

Sherlock froze. His eyes did the shifty thing when he'd been caught out. "What. No I didn't."

"Yes, you did."

"Hmm. I don't recall."

"It was just yesterday."

"Probably erased it."

"Uh-huh. Then why did you remember my type yesterday?"

"That's not what I-"

He was cut short; the door had slowly opened, creaking loudly. Behind it was a man, older than the both of them, about Mrs. Winfield’s age. He had dark hair that was graying at his temples. He wore simple clothes, just a button up and trousers.

All in all, seemed pretty decent.

His expression, however, was something to be desired. He had a sour look and seemed almost angry. But, in his defense, there was a dead woman found in his bed. John wouldn’t exactly be happy with that either. And being kicked out of your own home mustn’t feel too great.

Sherlock stood with a pout on his face, clearly put out at not getting the last word in. John took a great amount of satisfaction at being the one who got the last say. It almost never happened, but when it did, there was no better feeling. The only downside was watching the pout and suppressing all desire to kiss it off.

“Yes? What do you want? Are you with the police?” He asked, his face not fully seen as the door was opened just a bit, like he was ready to slam it shut at any moment. He seemed...anxious. But then, they must paint quite a picture: a grown man who looked about twelve and John, grinning like a maniac.

“Hello, Mr. Winfield. Sherlock Holmes,” Sherlock finally said, sticking out his hand for a shake. The man ignored it. Sherlock ignored him ignoring his hand and went on without a pause. “And this,” he gestured to John, “is my partner, Doctor John Watson.” John gave a nod to the man and the man stared at him for a while before nodding back.

“May we come in?” John asked. He wanted to be careful with this man. He seemed to be a nervous type.

“Oh yes. Of course.” He stepped back and opened the door wider to let John and Sherlock in.

The room was slightly different to their own, but overall was pretty much the same. Except for the bed. It was for one person only. That’s strange. Marital problems? Whilst there is a murder investigation? Suspicious.

John took a seat across from Mr. Winfield while Sherlock stood, or rather, skittered around. He made small movements, turning his head and looking at everything he could. Mr. Winfield watched him with narrowed eyes.

John watched the man.

Could this be their killer? He didn’t seem like one. But then again, you could never trust appearances. He acted suspiciously, but all suspects did. He’d learned over the years not to make hasty judgements.

“So, you with the police?” Mr. Winfield asked. John took out his small notebook and pen from his inside pocket.

“Yes,” Sherlock answered hastily, but didn’t elaborate. Interesting.

“I see. Well, I’ve already told them everything. Don’t see why you need to see me again.”

“I prefer to do my own investigations, Mr. Winfield.”

“Are you some sort of DI?”

“Yes,” Sherlock replied, putting on a quick smile. John could see through it, but then again Sherlock wasn’t trying to be genuine.

“Alright. Have at it then. What’d you want to ask first? Did I do it?”

“No. I think asking that would be rather pointless. No, what I want to know is where you were the night Angelina Marshall was killed.”

The man’s lips tightened and his hand clenched into a fist. He looked upset for a moment, but quickly his face changed back into an unhappy frown.

“I was out of town. I left to visit my sister. She’s sickly, stays in a clinic, so I go visit her sometimes to see how she’s doing. Talk. That sort of thing. It didn’t last long. Next day I get a phone call about a dead woman in my bed.”

The man was clearly upset by this.

“Did you know her well? The victim, I mean,” John asked.

He looked up at John and blinked. He looked off to the side and rubbed his mouth with his hand.

“Ah, no. No, she was just a client. I’ve spoken to her maybe a handful of times.”

“Do you know why anyone might do this? Any enemies?”

“Enemies?” The man exclaimed, disbelief coloring his tone and expression. “Do people actually have those?”

John looked down and smiled. Sherlock, standing next to him, frowned and sniffed once.

“No,” he continued. “Seemed pleasant. I don’t think she had any problems, really. Don’t know why anyone would do something like this.”

“I see. And do you have any idea why she might have been in your room?”

“Nope.”

“And your wife. Do you know where she was?”

“She told me she was visiting a friend here. She was staying in a room here overnight.”

“Oh? And do you believe her?”

“Well she spoke to one of the owners. She confirmed it.”

“I see. And do you know this friend?”

“No. Never met him.”

“Him?”

“Or her. I really don’t know.”

Sherlock gave a small nod. “And do you...have a _friend_ we should know about?”

It took the man a second to figure out what Sherlock was saying, but once he did he got into a rage. His face turned red, his hands clenched into fists, and he practically seethed as he said, “Mr. Holmes, I don’t know what you’re implying, but if you must know, I am very loyal to my wife. I would never betray her trust.”

“No. Of course you wouldn’t. Not even when you’re clearly having marital issues,” Sherlock said this as he pointedly stared at Mr. Winfield.

“Our _issues_ are not quite that serious.”

“Oh?”

“I assure you, Mr. Holmes, I am not a cheat.”

“And your wife?”

“What about her?”

“Is she a cheat?”

“I want to trust that she isn’t, but I don’t really know.”

“How very...logical of you. Well, this has been quite enlightening. Thank you for your time, Mr. Winfield. We’ll just be on our way.”

Sherlock urged John out of his seat by his shoulders and pushed him towards the door. The man looked as confused as John felt, but John was not new to this experience. He let himself be led out of the man’s room without question.

He was led down the hall all the way to their room, past a few guests, who gave them bizarre looks. Once they were in the room, Sherlock let go of him to shut the door. He took off his coat quickly and started pacing, clearly restless, but also excited.

John left him to it and took off his own jacket. He went to the chair which he had designated as his own and sat down. He held his notebook and looked through it again.

“They’re hiding something,” Sherlock said abruptly. He plopped down in his own chair, apparently done with the pacing.

“Who?”

“The Winfields. They’re hiding something.”

“Oh. What are they hiding?”

“I don’t know.”

“Okay. _Why_ do you think they’re hiding something?”

“Mr. Winfield claimed that their _issues_ are ‘not quite that serious’. Clearly he’s lying. But why?”

“Well they’re not sharing the room, that’s for sure, but they could just be going through a spat. Besides, they found a body in their room. I’d say that doesn’t help anything.”

“Oh, but on the contrary, John. Wouldn’t this be the perfect moment to bring them together?”

“Perfect moment? I wouldn’t call it that, exactly, no.”

“Think, John, think! They find something so terribly tragic happening in their inn, in their own room, no less. They get distraught, run towards each other for comfort. When something terrible happens, people always flock together. Comfort, support. All that lark. But that’s not what happened. No, Mrs. Winfield came to us on her own and didn’t tell Mr. Winfield because he didn’t recognize us even after we introduced us. Lack of communication.”

“That’s why you didn’t say anything. You didn’t want to let him on.”

“Precisely. Now, people in love are usually blind and unwaveringly loyal to their partners. But look at Mr. Winfield’s response. He didn’t show much confidence in Mrs. Winfield’s fidelity. He’s doubting her. Clearly, this isn’t something that just happened. Their problems have been ongoing. But he tried to downplay it.”

“Maybe he thinks it’s private. Maybe he’s embarrassed.”

“No, he would’ve stood by his wife to keep up appearances.”

“So....”

“So he’s hiding something. And so is she.”

“Her friend.”

“Yes.”

“It _could_ just be a friend, you know.”

“Yes. Her husband leaves town and she immediately goes to visit her friend and ends up staying the night.”

“I know what it sounds like, but maybe we shouldn’t jump to conclusions. Maybe we should actually speak to this friend first.”

“Yes, you’re right.”

John’s eyebrows rose, but Sherlock didn’t see; he was staring ahead at some fixed point with his hands steepled in front of his face in the usual fashion.

“So what do you think it is he’s hiding?”

“When you asked him about the victim he took his time. Rubbed at his mouth. Looked away. He’s lying. But why?”

“Well maybe _she_ was his _friend_ ,” John replied, looking pointedly at Sherlock.

“Yes. That would explain her being in the room.”

“Okay, so she was his lover, probably, and she ended up dead in his room.”

“Mhm.”

“So, jealous wife?”

“But she also supposedly has a lover. Why would she kill out of spite?”

“Maybe it was someone else.”

“And I did rule her out on day one.”

“You could be wrong.”

“Ehhh, unlikely. It’s not her.”

“So it’s him?”

“No. I don’t know.”

“It can’t be either of them; they both have pretty good alibis.”

“We need to expand. We can’t just focus on them two. Yes, they are the most likely suspects, but it could be someone else, someone we don’t expect. They could be hiding under our noses and we might not see them, because we’re drawing too many conclusions too quickly.”

“You always draw conclusions quickly.”

“Yes, but in this case, I think we need to take our time.”

“Okay. So what else have you got on them?”

“Well, they both clearly don’t trust each other: staying away, not talking, lack of loyalty-” Sherlock stopped, his eyes widening.

“Oh!” He exclaimed. John knew what this meant, of course. He’d been subject to those for a while now, but it seemed like prolonged exposure did not lessen the effects on John’s well-being. _Why do I have to look at that? Can he for once not make that face and sound?_ John clenched his hand and brought it to his mouth. He bit on a knuckle and sighed.

“Yes! That’s it! They suspect one another! They think one of them did it!”

“Okay. But it can’t be one of them. It doesn’t make sense.”

“No, it doesn’t. Oh, this is getting interesting.”

“You said they’ve been having problems for a while now. Maybe they’re just bitter.”

“What did I say about bitterness?”

“That it’s a paralytic, yes, but they could be angry and hurt, so they’re taking it out on each other by blaming the other.”

“But they aren’t blaming each other. They never said anything against the other.”

“But you said-”

“Yes. _I_ said. But _they_ didn’t. They spoke with their actions, but Mrs. Winfield never voiced her suspicions. And neither did he. Not even to the police. If they were that upset they’d say something. But they didn’t.”

“Maybe they didn’t want to seem suspicious. You know, if one of them blames the other, it might look like they’re just trying to pin the blame, because they’re guilty.”

“Maybe. But there is still distrust there. A careful distrust. I don’t know how to explain it. I know something’s there, but I can’t figure it out. Argh.” Sherlock scrunched up his nose in frustration and ruffled his hair with his hands. He let out an exasperated sigh as he sagged back into his chair.

“Don’t get so impatient. You’ll figure it out.”

“Yes, we will.”

John didn’t say anything, but smiled to himself. They sat in silence, Sherlock, clearly off into his head again and John, staring at him while he was distracted.

“So,” John said after a while, “what now?”

“Now we wait.”

“For what?”

“For nightfall. We’re going out to look for something.”


	4. The Cigarette

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my god, it's been forever since I've posted a chapter! I'm sorry, but I honestly got so distracted by other things, I forgot. Anyways, here's a new chapter. Hope you enjoy! Don't forget to comment and let me know what you think. Also, you can find me @lesyawrites on tumblr if you want to chat or w/e.

_John had stopped questioning his sanity a long time ago._

At some point, he’d come to terms with the fact that he wasn’t exactly normal. He’d always known it, but tried to keep it locked up tight and away, somewhere where no one could reach. As he went through his life, however, he found that all those things about him that he didn’t want known slowly unfurled by themselves. And there was nothing he could do to stop it. So meeting Sherlock Holmes was, of course, terrifying. And exhilarating.

And now, he and the great Sherlock Holmes were digging around in the mud like school children. In the middle of the night. And they were looking for _something_. What that something was, John didn’t know. And neither did Sherlock.

Apparently something was dropped here. John hoped it was the murder weapon; it’d make things much easier. But of course, it was never easy. Not for them, at least.

“Sherlock?” He asked, whisper-calling him. The man didn’t stop, but made a sound that told John he was listening.

“ _Why_ do you think that something was dropped here?” John asked.

“I don’t _think_ , John. I _know_.”

“Oh, well then, how do you _know_ something was dropped here?”

“Because of the doors.”

“Oh, the doors, yeah. Of course.”

He heard Sherlock huff.

“You’re being sarcastic.”

“Really? I couldn’t tell.”

“You’re not clever.” John couldn’t see it, but he definitely heard the pout.

“No, that’s your job. So, the doors?”

 “Yes, the doors. There’s a balcony in the room. It wasn’t locked properly. And there was a bit of mud on the floor near it. Small enough that it could have been missed. Not by me, of course.”

“Of course. Wait, mud? What does that have anything to do with it?”

“Well John, if you haven’t noticed, this is a very muddy area. Yet, we saw no dirt in the house.”

“The person didn’t wear the shoes indoors.”

“Exactly. They took them off. Went to murder the victim, then put them back on and escaped.”

“So they came through the balcony?”

“That would certainly explain the closed door and how they got in. But then there’s the knife. Did they get it before hand? They must’ve. But there aren’t any tracks in the house.”

“Unless they took their shoes off again. Or were an actual customer and nicked it during the day.”

“Hmm yes. Ugh, this case is really getting quite irritating. The solution is always something simple, but then there are all these little complications.”

“So, uh, back on topic. They either came or left through the balcony. So you think they dropped something here?”

“Exactly. They must’ve. They certainly didn’t climb down; there’s not much to grab onto. They probably tried but fell. There _must_ be something here.”

“What if nothing did fall out? Maybe they didn’t have anything on them. They were clever enough to commit murder in a house full of people and not get caught.”

“They won’t stay that way for long,” Sherlock said, voice full of promise. “Maybe we won’t find anything, but if we do? It could be important.”

“You know for sure they fell? They could’ve left some other way, you know. We don’t know for sure what they used the balcony for.”

“I know for sure because I asked. While you were having your date, I went to some of the people who stayed at the inn and asked if they heard anything. One of them told me she heard a thump, but it was outside and the middle of the night so she didn’t pay it any mind. Clearly that was our suspect.”

“Do you think they could be injured, maybe?”

“Potentially.”

“Alright. So we should be looking for someone with an injury then.”

“Mm. Oh!”

“What?” John asked, looking over to Sherlock. “Quiet down! You don’t want people to hear.” He’d been quite loud and it was dead of night.

“No one’s in the house, John. Besides, I just figured it out. The killer left through the balcony, but came in a different way.”

“Okay. And how do you know that?”

“Because of the mud, John. The mud!” he exclaimed, grabbing John by his shoulders.

“Okay. Mud. Great.”

Sherlock let out an exasperated sigh that John could see in the cool air.

“The mud was indoors. Why was it there if they came up through the balcony? Wouldn’t the killer have left their muddy shoes on the balcony?”

“Ah. But it could have come from their clothing. Maybe it rubbed off his trousers.”

“That’s,” Sherlock frowned, brows furrowed. He pouted again, clearly haven’t thought of that and got ahead of himself. “That could be true, I suppose. But then, how did they get up the balcony?”

“Okay. So the killer came in a different way.”

“Exactly. Safe to say this rules out the people who were staying in the inn.”

“So now we need to look for whoever wasn’t there.”

“Mhmm,” he replied and went back to looking. John did the same, though he was ready to give up. He shone the torch in another direction and sure enough, he spotted something.

“Sherlock,” John said.

“Yes? Did you find something?”

“Think so.” He knelt down, but didn’t touch the object. He got out a latex glove (he made sure to carry a pair now. Never knew when you needed to handle evidence) and picked up a cigarette. A new cigarette, unlit and unused.

“Now why would anyone throw out a perfectly good cigarette?” Sherlock questioned, turning to smile at John.

John gave him a scolding look. “You haven’t been on again, have you?”

“No,” he answered quickly. John narrowed his eyes at him and Sherlock looked off to the side. “Maybe. A bit. Just the one. Promise.”

“Alright,” he said, not quite alright with it, but he could drop it for now.

“So, a dropped cigarette. Anything it can tell us?” John asked. Sherlock hummed and looked at the cigarette more closely.

“Well, going by the packaging, seems like a Regal to me. I’d have to do some tests to be sure. Regardless, someone just happened to drop an unused cigarette, in a place right below the crime scene.”

‘So we’re looking for a smoker,” John said. He smirked and turned to Sherlock. “Sure it wasn’t you?”

Sherlock gave him a Look that John could barely stop from laughing at. He pouted and sniffed, very deeply offended one second, but hiding a smile the next.

“Come now, John. As if I would make such a silly mistake. I’d never waste one of these,” Sherlock replied, looking at John from underneath his eyelashes. John really hated it when he did that.

No he didn’t.

John let out a small laugh that Sherlock quickly shushed, but it didn’t really help him stop.

“Alright. Is this it?”

“Yes, I think this should be enough.”

And with that, they put the cigarette into a small plastic bag and started to quietly walk back to their inn. On the way there, John couldn’t help but to question Sherlock.

“But how do you know for sure that the cig belongs to the suspect?”

“Well why wouldn’t it?”

“Maybe someone else dropped it? You know, accidents to happen. Not everything is on purpose.”

“I do wonder where you get that idea. Besides, I never said it was dropped on purpose.”

“Well, it could be someone else.”

“Yes. But how likely do you think that is? The place where we were was not a casual walking path. Besides that, they did find a footprint nearby. Well, several footprints. They all matched. I doubt it was someone random just passing by when a crime scene is right there.”

“So, it’s not 100%?”

“Nothing ever is. There is always room for doubt, for speculation, for error. But, looking through all the facts we do have, there is no other easier explanation for all of them.”

“Oh, easy? I didn’t take you for someone who liked ‘easy’.”

“I’m not. But, throughout my years I’ve learned that Occam’s razor applies more often than not.”

“But you like things to be clever.”

“I do. But cleverness...is not always for the best. Like you said, not everything has a higher purpose. Not everything is a puzzle to solve.”

“Oh?” John asked as they quietly entered the inn. It was completely silent and the front desk was empty. Usually they had someone on a night shift, but maybe they’d went to the bathroom. Either way, it was best for them if they went in unnoticed. They quietly crept up to their room. Or as quietly as they could. The inn was rather old and any step you take results in overly dramatic creaking. It felt like they were walking around a horror movie set. The only thing that dispelled that feeling a bit was the fact that it was so warm and cozy.

“Some things are meant to be felt, not understood,” Sherlock said, taking off his coat and sitting down in his chair.

“Well. That’s very wise. Coming from you.”

Sherlock frowned. His brows furrowed but his eyes widened, clearly taking offense. “I’m not wise?”

“Well, you’re smart. Very smart. But wisdom? Wouldn’t say it’s your strong suit.”

“If I wanted to be wise, I would’ve become a philosopher.”

That rang a bell. He sat down in his own chair and huffed out a small chuckle.

“What?”

“Nothing, just. Reminds me of something Mycroft once said.”

Sherlock raised a brow. “Oh? And what did he say?”

“Nothing. Just asked me a question. Asked me to deduce your heart.”

“I see. And did you?”

“I dunno. I don’t think so.”

“Well, I can’t blame you. There’s not much to deduce.”

“Oh stop it,” John replied, rolling his eyes.

“Stop what?”

“This whole ‘I’m Sherlock Holmes and I’m a cold heartless person’. You’re a good actor, but I’m not really buying it. All I know is, you’ve got a heart, somewhere in there. I just don’t know what’s in it.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, John. You’re a doctor, you should know the ins and outs of a heart.”

“Not what I meant,” John replied, pointing at Sherlock and raising his brows.

Sherlock only stared at him, a hint of a smile and amusement playing in his eyes.

“Don’t you want to sleep? It _is_ the middle of the night.”

“Since when do you care about what time it is?”

“I don’t. But I know your sleeping habits are not comparable to mine.”

John knew the previous conversation was over. He knew Sherlock was diverting away from it and he didn’t know what to do. Should he push? Should he let it go? It was always like this with Sherlock; he never knew his allowances. Sherlock was particular and John never wanted to make him feel any discomfort. But John knew that life barely ever allowed for comfort and sometimes people needed to be pushed beyond their limitations to reach new goals. And John’s goal was to understand Sherlock. He always thought he did, he always thought, _finally I get it,_ and then the man would go and do something new. And that would again change his perspective. Sherlock was like water to him, something there but hard to grasp.

He let this one lie.

He got up and went to the bathroom to change for bed. When he came out, Sherlock had not moved. He sat staring straight ahead, in his own world again. John left him to it; he’d come back when he was done thinking.

He got into bed and closed his eyes and tried his best to fall asleep with the knowledge that Sherlock was only a few steps away.


End file.
